The Bat was cold, and calculating, and ruthless. Logic held in him much more powerfully than emotion. Small slights he punished not out of anger, but out of the understanding that loyalty was paramount. Small slights were dealt with brutally.

But he was fair. He had his rules. He gave his orders. You followed them, or you died. Better than the deal Black Mask had offered, his guards insisted—better than working for Two Face. Go to them if you were in a certain neighborhood, or could handle a certain amount of chaos. Go to them if they came to your door and demanded it, or you wanted a bigger cut, or wanted to blow a beast's head off—

But if you wanted rules and rigidity and some semblance of order, if you wanted to live in Gotham without kidding yourself, you went to the Bat.

(the Bat did not, in fact, need guards, something which was beyond apparent to those he actually accepted—he called them Canaries. Canaries in his coal mine. It frightened off most of them. The rest could only watch. It was better than Black Mask and Two-Face, they told themselves. Better than being caught in the crossfire.)

Black Mask and Two-Face lived, for now, but it was only a matter of time. Or perhaps they were already overwhelmed, and the Bat simply left them alive with some semblance of organization to distract the GCPD. It was very much the sort of thing he would do. It was heavily in his nature to use distractions, and leave the dregs to the dregs, and remove himself as far as possible from anything that might make him seem human, like pride, or greed, or lust—

Taking all this into account, it was hard to imagine how his first son had come about.

Nightwing was all smiles, all good-natured laughs, all kind words. He offered to carry heavy objects through the halls. He joked, once, about becoming a police officer, and the Bat had laughed along with him, chilling the blood of every witness to the scene. Yet there were no executions that day.

Nightwing first appeared in the dark of a cold night, a masked ten year old dressed in green, red, and gold. Robin, they'd called him then. Little Robin, who already knew the ropes of the business. Cheerful Robin, who taunted and toyed with hardened criminals. Fearless Robin, who stood beside the Bat with his tiny head held high. Robin who answered to the Bat, and to the Bat alone.

His loyalty was the only loyalty which went unquestioned. His transgressions were forgiven. His failures, overlooked.

Robin, they learned, was simply the name for the new favorites. For the protégées. One day, Robin walked into the office a few inches shorter than he'd been the day before. More broad shouldered and less refined. More red in his suit, less green. He grinned more, laughed louder, hit harder, toyed less.

Robin, the Bat hissed, and Robin would back down—eventually. And the new blue and black figure of Nightwing (who laughed) would hover on the edge of vision, a reminder of what could be made out of men.

The Bat had a fondness for orphans. It was reported on in the news, occasionally—they were not spared, not necessarily, but they were considered. Looked upon. Cared for, in some manner. God help the parents of a child who came to the Bat asking to be stolen away—

That was, of course, what people assumed of the third Robin, who appeared less than three years after the second had arrived.

There was fighting. The guards were all ordered out, but they all heard it, regardless. There were shouts and indignation in the cave's main room, and hints of something like ("Jay, little bird, stop it! Jay!" "Don't fuck with me, midget, I fucking swear I'll—" "This is what you wanted. I am giving it to you, and I expect you'll show proper gratitude— Nightwing, names!" "I'm sorry, father, I was just— ") wind, and fire, and thunder.

The next day, the new Robin entered through the ventilation and went many long minutes unseen hidden in cave's support beams, while the man in the red hood stalked through the door for the first time, an assault rifle strapped to his back, with two holsters for knives and handguns at his hips.

"Put those out of my sight, Hood," the Bat said, not needing to look up from his worktable in the middle of his office. There were no windows, only screens and walls, tables, and perches, and computers. The Bat had his own style, and his style was underground caves. A handful of guards held their places at the door, glancing at each other uneasily and watching the former Robin in the red hood begin readjusting his weapons.

(The Bat didn't like guns. He grit his teeth at the sight of them.

"They lack—control," he said, and said it with the strain in his throat that said more than his words ever could. Guns were not to be out in his presence, in the presence of his birds, or discharged at all unless specifically ordered. The Bat didn't use guns, personally.

He did not need them.)

Red Hood left his guns, grudgingly, with the guards at the door, and stepped further into the room until he was beside the Bat's worktable, peering over the edge but keeping enough distance to avoid being in the way. What that distance was, none of the guards were exactly sure. Only the Robins were ever permitted close to the table at any given time.

"What are we dealing with, now?" Red Hood asked, watching the Bat fiddle with a microscope slide and several beakers.

"Fear Toxin," Nightwing answered, when the Bat did not. He was on the far side of the room, perched near a corner he had claimed while still Robin himself. There was a bitter curve to his lips. "A man calling himself Scarecrow released it into Gotham about an hour ago. He's been doing petty stuff for a while, now, but this actually affects our turf and people under our protection."

"His name is Jonathan Crane," the Bat said. Both his birds stilled. "Robin, isolate the chemicals used in it. Once we create an anti-toxin, Red Hood will dispose of him."

The third bird—the new Robin—appeared then, slipping out from the shadows of the rafters and landing on the floor with hardly a sound, standing there as if he has always been. Red Hood shifted, Nightwing shot him a warning look, and there was no argument from either.

"Yes, sir," the little Robin said. His suit had changed again. Long pants, this time. A shorter cape. Different gloves. He took control of the microscope the moment Batman left it alone, and began doing something with vats of dye and boiling water.

"Nightwing will assist you both, when necessary," the Bat continued, moving away from the table to sit at the console of his massive computer. Video feeds appeared, clicking up and displaying hundreds of different camera angles. Empty streets, the rooms of the buildings above them, several manor gates, and a few city blocks that were in chaos, unnaturally thick fog rolling through, consuming a hoard of screaming people, swallowing them.

"He's in Crime Alley." Red Hood said, seething again, arms crossed. He sounded a bit indignant as he added, "I can handle it on my own."

The Bat didn't turn to look at him, but said, "I know you can. Both of you are capable, now. Nightwing is insurance."

"Don't take it personally. It's not like I'm only babysitting you, anyway," Nightwing said from the worktable. He'd left his perch after the orders were given and now crouched beside the new Robin, observing his methods and double checking his results. "No offense, kiddo."

The new Robin shook his head rapidly, blushing, and continued to work, even as Nightwing laughed.

The little wisp of a Robin stayed, shrinking in shadows, hovering near screens, unseen and unheard unless he wanted to be. Batman and Nightwing seemed to be the only two who could consistently point to where he was at any given time, a thing which only irritated Red Hood.

And then came the day when the blond Robin arrived.

No new mask joined beside her. None of the family made any introductions. Red Hood was spitting until the Bat gave him a mission to keep him occupied—total annihilation, it didn't have to be subtle, so long as he came back in one piece, successful, and calmer.

Even then, the source of his anger was not named, and so none of the guards breathed a word or asked why Robin was blond with a headband, taller than usual, and better at shit-talk than hiding in the shadows.

They continued not saying a word when the next week, the dark-haired shadowy wisp of a Robin returned, working silently beside the Bat at his table, as only one of the birds would ever be allowed to do.

The blond Robin appeared again, no less fiery than she had been her last appearance, a few days later. The dark-haired Robin vanished for three days. On and off, neither seen at the same time, until one day they were.

They walked in together, cloaked and cowled and beaked, and gladly introduced themselves as Red Robin and Batgirl. A matched set. A fearsome combination. Where Red Robin lacked brute force, Batgirl compensated in strength and a sharp instinct that Red Hood could compliment. Where Batgirl's intuitive prowess failed her, Red Robin's mind held strategies and gambits that could only be rivaled by the Bat himself.

They raided ships together, brought down rings and pulled them under control when something quieter than Red Hood was necessary. They went on their own plenty of times, powerful enough separate—but a horror force in tandem.

Despite that, despite everything, it was only when the next Robin appeared many, many months later—a ten year old with a sword strapped to his back and a scowl that could wither evergreens—that the guards realized the Bat wasn't taking in orphans.

He was taking in monsters.

000

this is still under a lot of construction and I'm blazing through YJ and as many batman comics as I can, but for the most part just run with me (and hit me up if you have an idea) .

reviews and critique are extremely appreciated!